


Fic

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murdoch catches George writing some questionable material.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“George, have you—” but he stops mid-sentence, though George has already turned around to look innocently up at him. For whatever reason, George’s eyes are just a bit wider than usual (though they’re always very big), and he instantly grabs the top of the paper half out of his typewriter, turning it down. 

There’s a pang of guilt in William’s chest. Social situations aren’t exactly his forte, but he knows enough that by now, he really should’ve at least attempted to read George’s book, no matter how... fanciful it must be. Normally, it’s not even on his radar, but he heard the rather loud warnings of the inspector earlier about writing at the station. Even worse, he heard George’s pitiful response and hurt over his colleagues not acknowledging his work. 

Fiction isn’t William’s area, either. But he reminds himself that content constables make for better workers, and in their line of work, that’s important. The case they’re working on, for once a mere money scandal not involving anyone’s death, can wait. He asks bluntly, “What are you writing, George?”

He expects the usual over-pleased smile and a lengthy explanation. William is quite used to getting what he expects, however little he might understand most other people. Instead, George’s cheeks turn slightly pink, and he says too quickly, “You never asked before, Sir.”

William frowns. He never had to before. There’re usually more important things to be solved, and besides, George usually tells him everything that’s going on anyway. Still, he inclines his head apologetically, clasps his hands behind his back, and notes, “That was my error. Allow me to correct it now.”

“Oh no, that’s quite alright, nothing you’d care to—”

“George,” William interrupts, because George has a way of being exasperating like that. “Please. What are you writing?”

Turning even pinker, George splutters, “It’s nothing, Sir.”

“Nothing?” William lifts an eyebrow. “While I may not have... ‘gotten through’ your novel yet, I’m sure your writing is quite a bit more than nothing.”

“No,” George corrects, shaking his head, and then he abruptly spins around in his chair, snatching the paper right out of the typewriter. Across from him, seated at the opposite desk, Higgins snorts behind his newspaper. It draws William’s attention, but Higgins quickly hides his face from view again, clearly looking through the stock trades related to this case, just like William asked him to. George, on the other hand, repeats a high-pitched, “Nothing,” and jerks open his top drawer so fast that the whole desk rocks. In his hurry to burry the page inside the drawer, his elbow knocks a stack of papers off the corner of his desk, the newspaper they were buried under toppling off first. 

William, of course, lunges to catch the stack of paper, reflexes kicking in. He manages to snatch one flying page out of the air, and before he can reach for the others, his eyes catch on a particular sentence.

_George gasped as the detective he’d always admired slid inside him, eliciting the sharp cry, “Will!”_

It’s about halfway down the page. William has no idea why his eyes caught on it—perhaps just the abbreviation of his own name, even though it surely can’t be about him, despite the fact that there’s no other detective in Station House Four who’s name could possibly be shortened to ‘Will.’

The next sentence is quite as bad. 

_William kissed George fiercely as he began to move, the passion of their love making steaming up the windows of the small carriage, and George’s eyes couldn’t leave the detective’s handsome—_

The paper is rapidly snatched out of William’s hands, both completely frozen. “I can explain!” George blurts, jabbing a finger across the two desks. Startled, William looks over at Higgins, who opens his mouth, perhaps in just as much shock. “It was Henry’s fault! He insisted that I couldn’t write a convincing fictional romance and...” George cuts off; one of the other constables down the hall has looked over at them. George’s voice hushes. His entire face is red, desperate and terrified and helpless looking. 

William, whose mind has officially gone blank, somehow manages to ask, “And you chose...?”

“Oh, it was Higgins’ stupid idea, I swear,” George hisses through grit teeth, pleading with his whole body. “I’m sorry, Sir, I’m so sorry, but he challenged me, and I _am_ a _writer_ , it’s not meant to be _real_ , of course—”

“I didn’t tell you to write a whole novel,” Higgins adds, looking affronted.

“Higgins!” George hisses before turning back to William and fumbling, “I didn’t write a whole novel, Sir, I swear—It’s just that as a writer, who did an exceptional job, by the way, I couldn’t help but get a little carried away, but it’s not that I, er, I didn’t mean, you see...” He trails off. He looks like he wants to transform every fibre in his being into the letters to spell ‘I’m sorry,’ but William is still getting over the fact that these other words exist. He’s too shocked to be angry. 

He’s too shocked to be anything. He bends down to pick up the papers, eyes sliding over all sorts of sordid situations between himself and his go-to constable, and he straightens back out with the entire stack in his hands. George looks too lost to pull those back. 

“What’s going on out here?” William’s head snaps to the side; he was too involved in the situation to notice the Inspector’s door flying open, which speaks volumes for the gravity of this. Spotting the crumpled page still clasped in George’s slightly trembling fingers, Inspector Brackenreid rolls his eyes and grumbles louder than George ever did, “What did I tell you about writing your faerie tales on my time, Crabtree?” He reaches out for the paper in George’s hand. 

William, on sheer instinct, snatches it away instead. George looks at him, doe-eyed and red, mouth open. William coughs and says, glancing sideways at George, “He was simply... compiling a suspect list for me.”

“Was he, now?” Inspector Brackenreid asks, narrowing his eyes. Under normal circumstances, William wouldn’t lie to him. 

These aren’t normal circumstances. George nods dumbly, then somehow manages. “Yes, Sir, I was just—”

But the inspector waves his hand. He’s just as aware as the rest of them of George’s rambling abilities. For once, that anticipation’s a good thing. He barks, “Keep it down out here, boys; _some_ of us are actually trying to get work done.” And he turns grudgingly back to his office, eyeing William with a warning. 

When the inspector’s safely back inside his office, George turns to William. He looks nearly in tears, all thoughts of the other members of the station house that could see him clearly forgotten. “Sir, I am so, so sorry. I swear, I never thought you’d... that you’d...”

“Ask what you were writing?” William offers, feeling slightly hurt, or maybe just guilty again. George looks aside. 

They need to talk about this. How, William’s not exactly sure. He’s not even sure how he feels about it. He doesn’t know what all the papers entail—if it’s some deep romantic entanglement between them or just snippets of inappropriate material meant to satisfy some childish dare. He’ll need to... need to read them. To get more information. He can’t come to a proper conclusion without all the facts. His chest is abnormally tight, his pulse just a little too fast. 

He forces himself to say as evenly as possible, “That’s quite alright, George.” George looks back at him in an instant, shock and hope all over his cutely nervous face. 

William’s on the verge of blushing himself. To save the embarrassment, he clears his throat, lifts the stack of papers and announces, “I’ll be confiscating these.” For... evidence. 

George doesn’t argue. George licks his lips and takes a hesitant, half-step forward, lowering his voice to whisper, “Sir, maybe we should... should talk about this...”

And William can’t help but agree, “Yes.” He glances at the stack of papers: about a dozen. That should take him a reasonable amount of time, though there’s no telling how comprehensive the material is. He looks up and decides, “In half an hour.”

George looks... stunned. 

William leaves him standing there in favour of returning to his own office. As soon as the door’s shut, he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

He takes a minute to just decompress. 

Then he walks over to his desk, intent on finding out just what part of him George finds ‘handsome.’


End file.
